


Nothing at all shut

by ottergirl



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Beholding Avatar Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Dream Sex, Dubious Consent, M/M, Monster Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Rape/Non-con Elements, Somnophilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-11
Updated: 2020-10-11
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:27:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26953606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ottergirl/pseuds/ottergirl
Summary: In his dreams and his nightmares, Martin sees the one he loves.Set in season 4, post-MAG 142 (Scrutiny).
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 10
Kudos: 69





	Nothing at all shut

**Author's Note:**

> See end notes for info about tags.

Martin dreams of him, too.

That poor woman, reliving the worst day of her life again and again beneath a hungry, unsparing gaze—Martin knows what she’s feeling. He had those dreams too, ages ago when he was living in the Archives, long before he’d even begun to understand what it all meant. In those dreams he had of the worms finding their way beneath his door, through cracks around his windows, up drains, down from light fixtures, crawling their way to him, finding his soft flesh and burrowing deep inside, infesting his tongue, infesting his eyes, worming and eating and hollowing him out to make him one of their own, a creature of the Hive—in those dreams the watcher was unformed, a voracious, terrible voyeur drinking in his terror, familiar in some sense but not yet recognized. But he knew how it felt, to have his pain and fear revisited again and again, dissected beneath the precise gaze of something monstrous.

And now he knows him in his dreams. He knows the presence of the one he loves.

A helpless anger fills him when he senses that presence, its gaze turned on him. _You’re not supposed to be here,_ he rails at the monster, cloaked in its watching eyes. _You’re not supposed to see this,_ Martin accuses, while in his dreams he remembers what it’s like to ache and need and desire, imagining Jon’s mouth hot on his cock as Martin works at the huge lonely desk in Elias’s office, imagining Jon climbing into his lap and forcing their mouths together, forcing Martin to acknowledge him, driving back the fog and the cold. 

_Go away,_ he tells the one he loves when he’s splayed out helplessly on his bed, and in his dream it’s Jon’s hand around his cock and Jon’s fingers fucking into him, and in the morning he wakes with come drying sticky on his stomach and a burning shame eating at his insides.

His nightmares are no longer of Jane Prentiss or burrowing worms. They are of the endless fog and the distant sound of the sea, and knowing that he is alone now, completely, irrevocably alone, without even the knowledge that he saved anyone to comfort him. He’s gone too far in; he won’t be coming out again. He’ll never know if Jon is safe, and pretty soon the fear and the anguish will fade into a faint whisper like the murmur of distant waves, and it won’t matter. He won’t remember enough for it to matter. He won’t care.

And then, in this dream, he feels the prickling, uneasy sense of being watched. He feels the eyes turning on him. He feels himself found.

He isn’t relieved. He’s angry.

 _This is all for you!_ he shouts into the fog that swallows all sound. _Don’t you understand that? Don’t you get it by now? What do I need to do to make you leave me alone?_

Martin sees him then, the one he loves, eyes all bright and burning, piercing through the heavy veils of mist. The fog burns away and he feels himself small, shrinking, before that shrouded figure that turns every unblinking eye upon him and stares mercilessly into every secret Martin has tried to keep. Only in anger is there refuge. Only Martin’s simmering fury keeps him from falling to his knees, begging for its touch. 

_I won’t do it,_ he tells the one he loves defiantly, and its eyes blink and narrow as it moves towards him. _I don’t want you,_ he lies through gritted teeth, as its hands grasp him and shove him back.

Its kiss is biting, vengeful and claiming. The strength of it pinning him down is beyond anything he’s ever felt. Martin tastes blood, feels it spilling from the corner of his parted lips, pain almost a sweetness, deep and piercing. Reaching him in this place where nothing else can reach him. 

And then the monster straightens, terrible and enormous, the cloak of eyes spreading out above him like it would blot out the fog, the sea, the sky somewhere beyond it, the sun of a world where so many people live their lives having never known this fear. It holds Martin’s legs spread, and as it pushes itself inside of him it compels the truth.

Martin tells it all. Writhing as it spears him open, forcing its cock inside of him, or something bigger and deeper than any cock has a right to be. Breath stuttering, sobbing, he tells the one he loves everything, about Peter and the Extinction, about the statements, the tapes left around the coffin, about Jon’s victims, about his own plans, about how little it matters whether he is protecting anyone or anything anymore if only the world would just vanish. Just leave him in peace.

The one he loves gives him no peace. It fucks him brutally, watching and feeling every sob, every moan, every jolt of pleasure or pain. It’s too deep inside of him. He’s filled up too much, small and terrified in his own skin, its gaze within him and without, picking apart every word and thought. Every helpless response, every ounce of his need.

 _Yes, please, I need you._ Even this, Martin isn’t spared. Confessions and pleas dragged from his throat until it feels raw, and still spilling from his lips: _I need you in me, I need you to fuck me, oh God, Jon, fuck me, fuck me, don’t leave me alone…_

The words go on and on until nothing is left of the Lonely, no shred of fog to hide him. He is exposed, mind and body wholly unconcealed, free of the burden of privacy or detachment. The one he loves is so deep within him that Martin can’t separate its rapture from his own. And at last it allows the flow of words to end, only moans and cries left to spill from his lips, as its hand cups his face almost tenderly.

_You’ll never be Peter’s. You’ll never belong to the Lonely. You know that, don’t you, Martin?_

The beautiful voice and the curl of satisfaction in it shatters him. Martin cries out, seeing nothing but the terror and glory of all its eyes on him.

_Say it. Tell me who you belong to. Say it, Martin._

_You,_ Martin sobs, cock jerking as he comes, release spilling over him, pleasure forced brutally through every part of his consciousness. _You, I belong to you, Jon, only you._

He can feel its vicious agreement, flooding into him as it fills him with its monstrous seed. 

It’s then that Martin wakes.

A grimy sort of light shines in from the window, washing the dull flat in gray. Martin is sticky, sore. His hand is loosely grasped around his own softened cock. A dream, he tells himself. Only a dream. He gets up to wash, feeling his legs tremble as he stumbles to the bathroom. The come staining him is his. The faint shadows of bruises on his hips, his thighs—he’s imagining this, he’s imagining the soreness inside him. Only a dream. He pulls on a pair of trousers quickly, his hands trembling, fumbling with the fly. 

A dream is what it has to be. There’s too much at stake to let it be real. But in here in his own tiny bathroom, for the briefest instant, he touches his cheek where Jon’s hand had cradled him like a moment of grace.

Outside the fog is waiting to claim him. But in here Martin can feel the memory of Jon beneath his skin, and he knows he isn’t alone.

**Author's Note:**

> Marked dubious consent and rape/noncon elements for implied somnophilia/dream sex actually occurring. Thank you for reading, feedback greatly appreciated! Visit me on tumblr @ clmariewrites.


End file.
